Skin, And Other Irritations

I’ve got an eczema-like rash on my neck and upper-chest. It’s very itchy, on and off. Among the several daily “ons” is 3am “on”, every night this bloody week, in fact, necessitating my getting up to apply liberal quantities of brilliant white aqueous cream. I’m “off” to see the quack tomorrow, assuming the matches propping open my eyelids don’t snap, hurling splinters of wood into my cornea and blinding me for life. I suppose I’ll still need to see the doc if that happens, and barring death, there is no way I can miss the appointment, or I’ll be struck off the health centre’s patient list. Blind and struck off, now that would be bothersome. Even more annoying that being woken up by a rash every night this week.

Not as annoying as the manager of Apple Court, my son’s respite centre, mind you. It’s a social services respite centre, so his stupidity is to be expected. I ought to be used to it by now, but it’s hard work getting used to someone with the social skills and professional attitude of a dustcart driver. Not that I’ve got anything against dustcart drivers. But I wouldn’t want one running a care centre for people with learning disabilities, although I imagine having the social skills of a dustcart driver is in the social services job description. Social workers’ job descriptions expect applicants to have the social skills of a muppet with its legs ripped off, depending on experience.

One of his respite centre’s staff – we have no idea who, of course – rang my son’s school this afternoon to ask if Marifa would be sleeping at the centre tonight. It’s Wednedsay, it’s term time, so of course he is. Not to mention my partner, Marifa's mother, handed his sleepover stuff to the centre manager personally this very morning, and spent 5 minutes chatting to him.

Fortunately, the member of staff who answered the phone at Marifa's excellent school spotted the caller for a gibbering idiot almost immediately, perhaps when she said, “I didn’t realise the school was back off holiday.” So why ring the school if you thought it was closed, you insightless dimwit? Why not ring me? Or Marifa's mother? Plus, most sensible people making such calls ask to speak to the Head or the classroom teacher. This plonker just rattled off her rubbish to whoever answered – in this instance, the receptionist, who – thank God – is pretty smart as receptionist go. Hence I got a phone call, and immediately phoned the respite centre manager.

Antonio, the respite centre manager – dustcart boy – was, as always, nonchalent. “Oh, I wonder who phoned?” He pondered, as if in a dilemma over whether to have chips or boiled potatoes for supper. He did apologise, granted, but in the same nonchalent tone, as if he was saying sorry for the gravy being a bit too salty. Excuse me? One of your staff rang my son’s school querying whether he would be sleeping at the centre you manage, a member of staff who clearly hasn’t the faintest fucking idea what’s going on. Do you?

Thankfully, enough staff at Apple Court do know what their doing, enough for me to feel confident Marifa will be safe there tonight. Mind you, we still have to ring them up to remind them about his supper. Ineffectual wankers.